Disembarking would have made me the happiest woman alive, had we not stepped down into that particular port. An entire platoon marched past us off one of the larger boats, carrying their armour and weaponry. An even larger group stumbled along behind them in thin farmer's garb, rubbing their arms. Some looked around, wide-eyed and scared. Others stared at the ground as they walked. Regardless of how they angled their gaze, however, not one could escape a very obvious fact: they were the untrained fodder. When they lined up to receive their standard-issue gear, they were lining up to receive the clothes they were going to die in.
At two in the afternoon, the inn already reflected that. The desperate sounds of men getting shit-faced out of fear rolled out of the front door as we passed. Better than allowing yourself to think whilst off duty. A drunk man would probably hold the line better than one that had really considered what it was he was about to do.
“Idiots, the lot of them,” Wrathwrought spat out with surprising malice as one staggered out of the pub behind us.
Apparently he disagreed.
We headed past the forges in silence. Meaning the combined roar of bellows, steam, furnaces and metal smashing metal allowed me to ignore him altogether simply by avoiding eye contact. Other stations handed out canteens, boots and helmets. We passed a massive tent providing meagre shelter to a row of people doling out food. Across the board, the seething masses of people generally fell into one of two camps: those that prattled away endlessly and those that stared into their laps or the space in front of them and looked close to tears. This base had probably seen some combat nearby. When I was a recruit I hadn't started acting like either group until I'd seen my first man torn to shreds, after all. Riding up to the fort, I'd actually been excited.
I snorted derisively at the thought, earning a raised brow from Wrathwrought that I pointedly ignored. We found someone to report to. They gave us a map that roughed out where they understood the enemy to be, some supplies and two horses. Then they pointed out the gate.
“And our men?” I demanded.
“We have been told specifically not to dispatch further reinforcements to that area,” the man told me calmly from behind his desk.
“You're sending two people out alone.”
“Evidentially you misunderstand your mission. You are not mounting an attack. You are recovering remnants and rendezvousing with the main force. You will do better with just two. That way you may avoid alerting the enemy to your presence altogether.”
“Bullshit. You don't send people out alone to help, you send people out alone to d-”
“It's fine,” Wrathwrought said, interrupting. “We'll skirt around the edge there. Shouldn't encounter much. Thanks for the provisions.”
“It's not fucking fine-”
But we were dismissed. I cussed Wrathwrought out from command tent to stables. I told him he was a stupid, arrogant twat. I told him that if he really thought that would work, he didn't deserve acknowledgement as anything smarter than an animal. Than a tree stump. I detailed to him all the ways we were going to die as we guided our horses out of that gate and looked out across the battle-scarred land in front of us.
And I realised, slowly, that I was one of the babblers.
Friday, 27 November 2009
Notes on 'Something Positive Never Lasts'
I am mostly pleased with this chapter. I feel it has a good balance of plot progression (if only as an indicator that we'll soon Be There), internal reflection, external description and character exploration. What I'm not overly keen on is the excessive swearing, specifically "fuck". Writing this story is desensitising me to that word, but I still notice when the repetition becomes droll.
Saturday, 29 August 2009
XIII: Something Positive Never Lasts
Our first sighting of land was in fact of ice, but I was glad to see it nevertheless. Feeling fat in heavy enough winter gear to have orphaned several fox cubs, I stood with shoulders hunched at the prow of the ship and watched the huge iron hull smash through sheet ice. A quarter of the way down the intricate swirls of metalwork, part of my lunch congealed. Art.
“A day, no more,” the captain said from behind me, addressing Wrathwrought, “And you're not. To get in the way while we're unloading. I'm making that clear. Now. So I don't have to later.”
He kept sucking at a pipe even in the midst of speaking, lending his speech an infuriating stop-start quality. I wanted to hit him. Then again, I wanted to hit everything, including Wrathwrought, who leaned back against the railing beside me.
“We'll just nip off first, then,” he said, grinning sideways at me, “I think the medic would appreciate that.”
A mumbled “fuck off” was my only contribution. I stared off out in front as they exchanged a few more words, watched hills of ice I presumed were icebergs amongst the thinner shit pass us by on either side as the captain excused himself, frowned at the bizarre expanse of white our ship was carving noisily through as Wrathwrought did his best to make conversation.
A frozen sea was impressive, I had to give it that. Some part of me found it hard to accept that, at first glance, we were ploughing through solid ground on a fifty foot fucking warship. Another part wondered if I could get off and walk. And if I could, shouldn't this count as land? Because as far as we humans, the map-writers, are really concerned, land is something you walk on. Damn the necessity of actual dirt.
It was all good because it kept my mind off the fact that we were a day at most from a bloody war zone. It also kept my mind off my stomach. Exhausted from sickness, I relented long enough to be grateful for something positive.
“Now that you're not throwing up,” Wrathwrought said, “I think we need to discuss how we're going to handle things once we're out there with the Hakurians.”
Fucking Wrathwrought.
“A day, no more,” the captain said from behind me, addressing Wrathwrought, “And you're not. To get in the way while we're unloading. I'm making that clear. Now. So I don't have to later.”
He kept sucking at a pipe even in the midst of speaking, lending his speech an infuriating stop-start quality. I wanted to hit him. Then again, I wanted to hit everything, including Wrathwrought, who leaned back against the railing beside me.
“We'll just nip off first, then,” he said, grinning sideways at me, “I think the medic would appreciate that.”
A mumbled “fuck off” was my only contribution. I stared off out in front as they exchanged a few more words, watched hills of ice I presumed were icebergs amongst the thinner shit pass us by on either side as the captain excused himself, frowned at the bizarre expanse of white our ship was carving noisily through as Wrathwrought did his best to make conversation.
A frozen sea was impressive, I had to give it that. Some part of me found it hard to accept that, at first glance, we were ploughing through solid ground on a fifty foot fucking warship. Another part wondered if I could get off and walk. And if I could, shouldn't this count as land? Because as far as we humans, the map-writers, are really concerned, land is something you walk on. Damn the necessity of actual dirt.
It was all good because it kept my mind off the fact that we were a day at most from a bloody war zone. It also kept my mind off my stomach. Exhausted from sickness, I relented long enough to be grateful for something positive.
“Now that you're not throwing up,” Wrathwrought said, “I think we need to discuss how we're going to handle things once we're out there with the Hakurians.”
Fucking Wrathwrought.
Notes on 'Strength of Stomach'
Although it's a defining characteristic of Calysia's thought patterns, I sometimes wonder if I let her rant a bit too much. Like the stereotypical old man, it's fine for him to curse the modern world with frequent mention of how much better it was in the old days, but if he keeps it up for too long he simply becomes comical. I'm worried this will happen to Calysia. Thankfully, she'll be in the warzone soon so must of her commentary will be on what's actually happening, but I think I may have to go into some of the earliest chapters and hack them up a bit to reduce repetition.
My main aim with this chapter, anyway, was to convey just how self-centred Calysia is. So caught up in her own pride, she's damning Gethan for looking after her, really. I hope that's clear in the text; I did manage to create a line free of her bias with "He brought me water, a damp cloth, a blanket and a fresh bucket." Even though she states all her suspicions as fact ("He was bloody well enjoying this" instead of "I could see he was bloody well enjoying this.") I feel a depiction of an action without any mention of sentiment will draw suitable notice.
Although I'm fairly proud of how I'm managing my dishonest narrator, there is always the worry that her war memories sound contrived. People rolling about and screaming in pain are pretty bog standard for depictions of warzone medical tents but I've found it difficult to move away from that without actually focusing on a particular patient (and thus exploring the intricacies of the doctor/patient relationship or anything like that). As Calysia is not prepared to think of any particular case just yet, this is an impossible fix. It's just something I'm going to have to brood over for a while, I think.
My main aim with this chapter, anyway, was to convey just how self-centred Calysia is. So caught up in her own pride, she's damning Gethan for looking after her, really. I hope that's clear in the text; I did manage to create a line free of her bias with "He brought me water, a damp cloth, a blanket and a fresh bucket." Even though she states all her suspicions as fact ("He was bloody well enjoying this" instead of "I could see he was bloody well enjoying this.") I feel a depiction of an action without any mention of sentiment will draw suitable notice.
Although I'm fairly proud of how I'm managing my dishonest narrator, there is always the worry that her war memories sound contrived. People rolling about and screaming in pain are pretty bog standard for depictions of warzone medical tents but I've found it difficult to move away from that without actually focusing on a particular patient (and thus exploring the intricacies of the doctor/patient relationship or anything like that). As Calysia is not prepared to think of any particular case just yet, this is an impossible fix. It's just something I'm going to have to brood over for a while, I think.
XII: Strength of Stomach
Gangrene, open sores, split intestine, watery yellow pus running from a ragged wound dug deep between two ribs; the low, animal growl of a man in pain, the piercing, high-pitch scream of a man in agony; the stench of shit running from a newly made tear, of piss going stale in the weave of a cot's only sheets: I'd witnessed all that and more, all worse than I could easily describe, and never lost control over my stomach.
Even during my first few days as an active field medic, sent straight to a tent in which a man whose side was full of splintered wood hawked up red and yellow phlegm and smeared his own excrement up his back with each squirm of agony and involuntary squeeze of his bowel, I had not thrown up. My superior had looked at me and given the hollow, half-unseeing grin of an experienced war physician. Pale, shaking, gagging on the stench, I heard him say I had a damned strong stomach. When the fuck did I lose that?
Hell, not that when really mattered. I needed to know how. So I could reverse it. So I could reverse it before I died of dehydration and broken pride.
That Wrathwrought was taking so much pleasure in this made it all infinitely worse. As I gagged on my own foul spit and hunkered down in the corner of my cupboard of a room, the one the crew had thrust me into when I first turned green, he made excuses to come and go. He brought me water, a damp cloth, a blanket and a fresh bucket. Though he kept his face carefully blank with each infuriating visit I could see the fucking gloating glint in his eye. He was bloody well enjoying this. Every time he opened that door a crack, craned his head around and peered about before easing himself through on the grounds of checking up on me I could see his overwhelming glee for all he tried to hide it.
If I hadn't been so incapacitated by the sickness, I would have made him hurt for that blatant disrespect. Instead I raised my head from my knees, glared blearily at him and his carefully restrained grin, and hawked phlegm at his polished boots. It was the best I could do. And when he failed to even flinch and merely stared at me impassively, brows drawn together, even that did nothing to make me feel better.
At that point, I doubted even the best medicine could.
Even during my first few days as an active field medic, sent straight to a tent in which a man whose side was full of splintered wood hawked up red and yellow phlegm and smeared his own excrement up his back with each squirm of agony and involuntary squeeze of his bowel, I had not thrown up. My superior had looked at me and given the hollow, half-unseeing grin of an experienced war physician. Pale, shaking, gagging on the stench, I heard him say I had a damned strong stomach. When the fuck did I lose that?
Hell, not that when really mattered. I needed to know how. So I could reverse it. So I could reverse it before I died of dehydration and broken pride.
That Wrathwrought was taking so much pleasure in this made it all infinitely worse. As I gagged on my own foul spit and hunkered down in the corner of my cupboard of a room, the one the crew had thrust me into when I first turned green, he made excuses to come and go. He brought me water, a damp cloth, a blanket and a fresh bucket. Though he kept his face carefully blank with each infuriating visit I could see the fucking gloating glint in his eye. He was bloody well enjoying this. Every time he opened that door a crack, craned his head around and peered about before easing himself through on the grounds of checking up on me I could see his overwhelming glee for all he tried to hide it.
If I hadn't been so incapacitated by the sickness, I would have made him hurt for that blatant disrespect. Instead I raised my head from my knees, glared blearily at him and his carefully restrained grin, and hawked phlegm at his polished boots. It was the best I could do. And when he failed to even flinch and merely stared at me impassively, brows drawn together, even that did nothing to make me feel better.
At that point, I doubted even the best medicine could.
Friday, 26 June 2009
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
Trust
[SPOILER]
Once, lying on a cot, contorted with pain, he told me to leave.
"It's not that bad," he lied.
I looked under his bandaging, where the flesh around my neat black lines of stitching was turning waxy yellow. The image kept rippling regardless of how many times I wiped my eyes.
"Yes it is," I insisted, choked.
"Calysia," he said, and gripped my arm, "I'm strong. I'll last. Don't worry."
"I ought to stay and-"
"No. You ought to help everyone else. Lizzie, go and help everyone else. I'll still be here when you're done."
I stood there, young, pale, wavering, uncertain. Listening to a lie from someone I trusted. I saw him flushed and shaking in the grasp of a deadly fever. I saw him dying. But I heard his words and, childishly, I trusted him. I turned my back, and focused on those lying sick all around me.
Murder was not hard.
Once, lying on a cot, contorted with pain, he told me to leave.
"It's not that bad," he lied.
I looked under his bandaging, where the flesh around my neat black lines of stitching was turning waxy yellow. The image kept rippling regardless of how many times I wiped my eyes.
"Yes it is," I insisted, choked.
"Calysia," he said, and gripped my arm, "I'm strong. I'll last. Don't worry."
"I ought to stay and-"
"No. You ought to help everyone else. Lizzie, go and help everyone else. I'll still be here when you're done."
I stood there, young, pale, wavering, uncertain. Listening to a lie from someone I trusted. I saw him flushed and shaking in the grasp of a deadly fever. I saw him dying. But I heard his words and, childishly, I trusted him. I turned my back, and focused on those lying sick all around me.
Murder was not hard.
A Pauper's Cheque
[SPOILER]
'Lizzie,' a man said to me once, 'Lizzie, as long as we have hope, we have a chance.'
He had been proven so incredibly wrong that when I heard Dayrin Steeldrift telling her motley crew that, if they persevered and kept in high, hopeful spirits, God would keep them safe I couldn't simply sit and listen.
'Hope has no bloody effect on fate,' I said from my place to one side, interrupting the lieutenant mid-sentence.
Her brown eyes moved slowly from her audience to me. Calm, they showed no hint of disapproval or complaint. Merely steady appraisal.
'Miss Wraithwood?'
I wasn't sure entirely what sort of question my name was meant to represent, so I took it to signify I could go on as I liked.
'It just sets you up for a big disappointment. We're in fucking dire straights and sitting around hoping for a happy resolution will only make it worse. Forget your pretty little dreams and work. Work's the only thing that'll help us.'
She frowned ever so slightly but nodded nevertheless.
'Aye. Work. Work's important. But I've never heard of a man who can put in a proper effort without some hope. We work in hope of survival. Not in certainty of death.'
I am seldom speechless, and that moment was no deviation from the norm. I just felt disinclined to speak. Moved back into the darkness. Made my way mindlessly to my tent. Sat in my intolerable chair. Thought of work in the certainty of death. Thought of things best left well alone.
Fuck Dayrin.
'Lizzie,' a man said to me once, 'Lizzie, as long as we have hope, we have a chance.'
He had been proven so incredibly wrong that when I heard Dayrin Steeldrift telling her motley crew that, if they persevered and kept in high, hopeful spirits, God would keep them safe I couldn't simply sit and listen.
'Hope has no bloody effect on fate,' I said from my place to one side, interrupting the lieutenant mid-sentence.
Her brown eyes moved slowly from her audience to me. Calm, they showed no hint of disapproval or complaint. Merely steady appraisal.
'Miss Wraithwood?'
I wasn't sure entirely what sort of question my name was meant to represent, so I took it to signify I could go on as I liked.
'It just sets you up for a big disappointment. We're in fucking dire straights and sitting around hoping for a happy resolution will only make it worse. Forget your pretty little dreams and work. Work's the only thing that'll help us.'
She frowned ever so slightly but nodded nevertheless.
'Aye. Work. Work's important. But I've never heard of a man who can put in a proper effort without some hope. We work in hope of survival. Not in certainty of death.'
I am seldom speechless, and that moment was no deviation from the norm. I just felt disinclined to speak. Moved back into the darkness. Made my way mindlessly to my tent. Sat in my intolerable chair. Thought of work in the certainty of death. Thought of things best left well alone.
Fuck Dayrin.
Preliminary Notes on 'Seasickness'
Even when she was new Calysia was praised about her steady stomach (think back on various terrible sights: split stomachs, pustules, gangrene et cetera). Now suffering from bad seasickness, trying to figure out how to sea looks worse than any of those medical emergencies.
Need to somehow mention that Wrathwought is looking after her, but put a negative spin on it - he's making excuses to come see her suffering.
Need to somehow mention that Wrathwought is looking after her, but put a negative spin on it - he's making excuses to come see her suffering.
An Error of Judgement
The clay pots sat in uniform rows in front of him, squat, with wide, round caps. Externally identical. He frowned as he looked at them, the chief medic pacing on the other side of the table.
“I need them done fast, do you hear me?” Calysia was saying, probably annoyed by his lack of eye contact, “Here's a list of their defining attributes, here are the labels because no, no, Copperfield, I don't trust your handwriting and I never will. Get to work.”
“But Miss Wraithwood-”
“No buts,” she snapped, and before he could get in another word she was gone.
This left Copperfield in quite the predicament. Brows knitted together, he reached out and lifted the endmost pot, uncapping it and peering inside at a tangy, pale, viscous mixture. His gaze shifted slowly to the piece of paper Wraithwood had left, her neat writing rolling out in long, unfathomable rows over the grubby parchment. He frowned deeper. It was a bad idea not to follow Wraithwood's orders. The woman had very little interest in excuses and quite a lot of interest in long, cruel punishments. Reaching out, he lifted up a label at random and set to work.
By the time Wraithwood swept back into the tent every pot was labelled and Copperfield sat off to one side, watching them all with a thoughtful expression.
“Hullo miss.”
“Unbelievable. You actually did it.”
“Yes, miss, I took all the labels and-”
“And I'd thought I was just keeping you occupied in one place for a while. Incredible.”
“I was, miss, very occupied, but you see-”
She was picking up pots, inspecting the lay of the labels, smoothing out air bubbles and admiring her own handwriting.
“Pressed down straight. I never.”
“That wasn't the hard part, it was-”
“Of course it wasn't the hard part, I'd done the hard part myself. Writing up fifty labels is tiresome work.”
She wasn't inspecting the contents of the jars at all, he noticed. Just the text on the labels and how well stuck down they were. Her back to him, she started scooping up jars and setting them on her wobbling makeshift shelf, until the weight of all that glass and fluid held the rickety structure still. She looked at him over her shoulder as she slipped the last jar into place.
“Even more excellent than it needs to be. Well done, Copperfield's steady hands.”
“My hands have always been good, miss, but I think-”
“You can think it's nothing all you like. I'll still be quite impressed.”
“No, no, it's just-”
“Shush. You deserve a break.” She handed him one of her ration vouchers. “Get yourself something to eat. I need to get back to business. Some sort of plague strain is doing its evil, I just needed this...”
She cast her gaze over the full shelves, then extracted a few jars whose labels looked similar to Copperfield.
“Enjoy dinner.”
And she was gone again, medic's robes streaming out behind her. He set quietly in the tent, looking from the open tent flap to the rows of jars, the ration voucher limp between his fingers.
“But miss,” he said to the empty air.
He looked down at the page, where the characters sat dull and lifeless in their dark ink.
“Miss, I can't read.”
25/2/09
“I need them done fast, do you hear me?” Calysia was saying, probably annoyed by his lack of eye contact, “Here's a list of their defining attributes, here are the labels because no, no, Copperfield, I don't trust your handwriting and I never will. Get to work.”
“But Miss Wraithwood-”
“No buts,” she snapped, and before he could get in another word she was gone.
This left Copperfield in quite the predicament. Brows knitted together, he reached out and lifted the endmost pot, uncapping it and peering inside at a tangy, pale, viscous mixture. His gaze shifted slowly to the piece of paper Wraithwood had left, her neat writing rolling out in long, unfathomable rows over the grubby parchment. He frowned deeper. It was a bad idea not to follow Wraithwood's orders. The woman had very little interest in excuses and quite a lot of interest in long, cruel punishments. Reaching out, he lifted up a label at random and set to work.
By the time Wraithwood swept back into the tent every pot was labelled and Copperfield sat off to one side, watching them all with a thoughtful expression.
“Hullo miss.”
“Unbelievable. You actually did it.”
“Yes, miss, I took all the labels and-”
“And I'd thought I was just keeping you occupied in one place for a while. Incredible.”
“I was, miss, very occupied, but you see-”
She was picking up pots, inspecting the lay of the labels, smoothing out air bubbles and admiring her own handwriting.
“Pressed down straight. I never.”
“That wasn't the hard part, it was-”
“Of course it wasn't the hard part, I'd done the hard part myself. Writing up fifty labels is tiresome work.”
She wasn't inspecting the contents of the jars at all, he noticed. Just the text on the labels and how well stuck down they were. Her back to him, she started scooping up jars and setting them on her wobbling makeshift shelf, until the weight of all that glass and fluid held the rickety structure still. She looked at him over her shoulder as she slipped the last jar into place.
“Even more excellent than it needs to be. Well done, Copperfield's steady hands.”
“My hands have always been good, miss, but I think-”
“You can think it's nothing all you like. I'll still be quite impressed.”
“No, no, it's just-”
“Shush. You deserve a break.” She handed him one of her ration vouchers. “Get yourself something to eat. I need to get back to business. Some sort of plague strain is doing its evil, I just needed this...”
She cast her gaze over the full shelves, then extracted a few jars whose labels looked similar to Copperfield.
“Enjoy dinner.”
And she was gone again, medic's robes streaming out behind her. He set quietly in the tent, looking from the open tent flap to the rows of jars, the ration voucher limp between his fingers.
“But miss,” he said to the empty air.
He looked down at the page, where the characters sat dull and lifeless in their dark ink.
“Miss, I can't read.”
25/2/09
Failure at Taovak
Figuring out which would be best. (Major spoilers here.)
After the vast majority of people at Taovak are infected with the illness should Calysia ignore all but Sebastian?
Would she have taken his name then?
Her guilt would have more to do with the other people who died without her, so probably not.
Perhaps... Some sort of sickness spreads amongst the wounded.
Calysia tries to stop it but hasn't the knowledge or experience to devise a cure. People with even the most minor of injuries start to die.
Desperate to save them, she works herself to exhaustion.
Sebastian is injured.
Calysia spends the most time with him; he tells her to deal with the others - says he'll be okay.
Calysia does as told but continues to fail at saving people despite several promising treatments.
Sure of her failure, she then finds Sebastian unconscious, in the final phase of the illness.
Hopeless, she takes him with her up onto the battlements to see the sparrows etc. The enemy are about to break through. She curls up beside him and sleeps, having worked herself half to death. At the last moment the army's cavalary race down and dash the enemy force; Calysia is saved.
After the vast majority of people at Taovak are infected with the illness should Calysia ignore all but Sebastian?
Would she have taken his name then?
Her guilt would have more to do with the other people who died without her, so probably not.
Perhaps... Some sort of sickness spreads amongst the wounded.
Calysia tries to stop it but hasn't the knowledge or experience to devise a cure. People with even the most minor of injuries start to die.
Desperate to save them, she works herself to exhaustion.
Sebastian is injured.
Calysia spends the most time with him; he tells her to deal with the others - says he'll be okay.
Calysia does as told but continues to fail at saving people despite several promising treatments.
Sure of her failure, she then finds Sebastian unconscious, in the final phase of the illness.
Hopeless, she takes him with her up onto the battlements to see the sparrows etc. The enemy are about to break through. She curls up beside him and sleeps, having worked herself half to death. At the last moment the army's cavalary race down and dash the enemy force; Calysia is saved.
Calysia Wraithwood
Gender: Female
Age: 24
Physical description:
Tall, gaunt and sinewy with lightly tanned skin and black hair threaded prematurely with grey. Her eyes are on the green side of hazel. While her skin mostly appears young, shallow wrinkles mark out frown lines across her forehead and from the corners of her mouth.
Basic facts:
Calysia Albinor was born to a maid whom her father, a moderately successful merchant, married after impregnating. As her mother was quite aware of being lower class she always strove to better herself and this drive passed on to Calysia, who grew up to be an intelligent, ambitious young woman set on being a doctor.
After training under the supervision of the town general practitioner, she transferred to the army and was sent to fort Taovak, arriving mere days before it was hemmed in with enemies. After holding out for ten months, during which time a post-injury illness decimated the numbers of the defenders, the fort was relieved at the last minute by the bulk of the army. Calysia was found up on the battlements of the ruined inner walls, sitting beside a cot in which the body of Major Sebastian Wraithwood lay.
After three months spent in a hospital for traumatised war veterans she rejoined society, taking Major Wraithwood's name and staying away from her family so as to continue her work as a combat medic. She enlisted in the service of a group of old soldiers in charge of allocating experienced people to different units, who eventually sent her into the worst area in the war zone to the north.
The woman herself is a bitter, self-deprecating individual whose pride in her work is twisted by guilt and a general sense of failure. Her intellect is most commonly put to use in coming up with creative insults.
Age: 24
Physical description:
Tall, gaunt and sinewy with lightly tanned skin and black hair threaded prematurely with grey. Her eyes are on the green side of hazel. While her skin mostly appears young, shallow wrinkles mark out frown lines across her forehead and from the corners of her mouth.
Basic facts:
Calysia Albinor was born to a maid whom her father, a moderately successful merchant, married after impregnating. As her mother was quite aware of being lower class she always strove to better herself and this drive passed on to Calysia, who grew up to be an intelligent, ambitious young woman set on being a doctor.
After training under the supervision of the town general practitioner, she transferred to the army and was sent to fort Taovak, arriving mere days before it was hemmed in with enemies. After holding out for ten months, during which time a post-injury illness decimated the numbers of the defenders, the fort was relieved at the last minute by the bulk of the army. Calysia was found up on the battlements of the ruined inner walls, sitting beside a cot in which the body of Major Sebastian Wraithwood lay.
After three months spent in a hospital for traumatised war veterans she rejoined society, taking Major Wraithwood's name and staying away from her family so as to continue her work as a combat medic. She enlisted in the service of a group of old soldiers in charge of allocating experienced people to different units, who eventually sent her into the worst area in the war zone to the north.
The woman herself is a bitter, self-deprecating individual whose pride in her work is twisted by guilt and a general sense of failure. Her intellect is most commonly put to use in coming up with creative insults.
Philosophical
The sea eats my thoughts.
I eat fuck all.
6/5/09. First draft. For use after a chapter ending thoughtfully about the vastness of the sea.
I eat fuck all.
6/5/09. First draft. For use after a chapter ending thoughtfully about the vastness of the sea.
Wasting Linen
[SPOILER]
We were going in circles. The belief was unshakable. Trouble was, with the Hekurians moving around below ground it was hard to be sure. They made new holes. New lumps. Forced previously buried rocks through the surface. It meant that even though there was definitely some vague familiarity with the passing scenery I couldn't quite memorise the distance between a rock and a root and expect to see it again. So I waited a while before mentioning it to Gethan.
"Possible," he said, "I do keep tripping on a very particularly shaped rock."
I scowled at him.
"Said in all seriousness," he assured me, "Besides. If you can tell one organ from another I'd trust you to recognise a reoccurring tree."
We looked around. The overcast sky muted colours and melded them together in shadows: trees blended into one another in dusky green and brown. Bracken, twigs and earth became one swathe of mottled brown. We passed a familiar rock.
"Bit of bandage, please, Pretty."
I arched a brow as I drew it out, pondering his intentions.
"It doesn't work for strangling."
"Not surprised you know that."
"Assassin jumped me in an ally. Was the only thing to hand."
"Liar."
"Alright, I shanked him."
"With a bandage."
"Don't be moronic. Bottle from the gutter."
He smirked and tore a small strip from the bandage, tying it securely around a branch of the nearest tree.
"I want that back," I warned.
"You will. If you're right, that is."
He stretched, moving off down the shambling ranks, typing strips to trees. And that was that. No relief from the sense of deja vu. But no sightings of bandages either. Bloody waste.
6/5/09. First draft.
We were going in circles. The belief was unshakable. Trouble was, with the Hekurians moving around below ground it was hard to be sure. They made new holes. New lumps. Forced previously buried rocks through the surface. It meant that even though there was definitely some vague familiarity with the passing scenery I couldn't quite memorise the distance between a rock and a root and expect to see it again. So I waited a while before mentioning it to Gethan.
"Possible," he said, "I do keep tripping on a very particularly shaped rock."
I scowled at him.
"Said in all seriousness," he assured me, "Besides. If you can tell one organ from another I'd trust you to recognise a reoccurring tree."
We looked around. The overcast sky muted colours and melded them together in shadows: trees blended into one another in dusky green and brown. Bracken, twigs and earth became one swathe of mottled brown. We passed a familiar rock.
"Bit of bandage, please, Pretty."
I arched a brow as I drew it out, pondering his intentions.
"It doesn't work for strangling."
"Not surprised you know that."
"Assassin jumped me in an ally. Was the only thing to hand."
"Liar."
"Alright, I shanked him."
"With a bandage."
"Don't be moronic. Bottle from the gutter."
He smirked and tore a small strip from the bandage, tying it securely around a branch of the nearest tree.
"I want that back," I warned.
"You will. If you're right, that is."
He stretched, moving off down the shambling ranks, typing strips to trees. And that was that. No relief from the sense of deja vu. But no sightings of bandages either. Bloody waste.
6/5/09. First draft.
Riona Devine
Gender: Female
Age: 18
Physical description:
A small, flat-chested girl whose copper hair is cut short. A short, deep scar across her left cheek renders that corner of her mouth unresponsive. She wears greens and browns, mostly leather.
Basic facts:
Having been a scout for her home community, a group of gypsies, Riona joined the army at 14 and has scouted for them since. As such she spends a great deal of time alone and on high alert, leaving her quiet and spaced out when in company. This often leads her to appear dispassionate to her new companions, with whom she has yet to form any close bonds after meeting up with them shortly after Dayrin rounded the bulk of their group together.
Age: 18
Physical description:
A small, flat-chested girl whose copper hair is cut short. A short, deep scar across her left cheek renders that corner of her mouth unresponsive. She wears greens and browns, mostly leather.
Basic facts:
Having been a scout for her home community, a group of gypsies, Riona joined the army at 14 and has scouted for them since. As such she spends a great deal of time alone and on high alert, leaving her quiet and spaced out when in company. This often leads her to appear dispassionate to her new companions, with whom she has yet to form any close bonds after meeting up with them shortly after Dayrin rounded the bulk of their group together.
Lionel Rethilmyrr
Gender: Male
Age: 31
Physical description:
A man of medium height with wild brown hair, amber eyes and a clean shaven face in direct contrast with the hairiness of the rest of his body. He moves with a certain jerky vigor. Wears heavy robes fitted with light leather armour; the sleeves have been cut away but the cold doesn't seem to bother him overly.
Basic facts:
A pyromancer of the lowest rank who has no regrets that his spells lack the complexity of greater mages', making up for this with crude effectiveness boosted by constant vigilance and quick reactions. An intelligent, impulsive man who often fails to explain things properly, attempting to summarise his overly technical attempts with usually incorrect analogies. He tends to keep active and dislikes silence and stillness.
Age: 31
Physical description:
A man of medium height with wild brown hair, amber eyes and a clean shaven face in direct contrast with the hairiness of the rest of his body. He moves with a certain jerky vigor. Wears heavy robes fitted with light leather armour; the sleeves have been cut away but the cold doesn't seem to bother him overly.
Basic facts:
A pyromancer of the lowest rank who has no regrets that his spells lack the complexity of greater mages', making up for this with crude effectiveness boosted by constant vigilance and quick reactions. An intelligent, impulsive man who often fails to explain things properly, attempting to summarise his overly technical attempts with usually incorrect analogies. He tends to keep active and dislikes silence and stillness.
Private Edward Copperfield
Gender: Male
Age: 28
Physical description:
Dark blonde hair, cropped short. Tanned skin. Blue eyes. Short, well-kept beard. More wiry than muscular, though not tall enough to count as lanky.
Basic facts:
An uneducated petty thief who accidentally discovered a knack for explosives whilst pilfering from military supplies and was subsequently captured and put to work. Although he is generally slow to learn he knows his stuff insofar as blowing things up is concerned. He's often tactless and blunt. Prone to obsession. Difficult to panic.
Age: 28
Physical description:
Dark blonde hair, cropped short. Tanned skin. Blue eyes. Short, well-kept beard. More wiry than muscular, though not tall enough to count as lanky.
Basic facts:
An uneducated petty thief who accidentally discovered a knack for explosives whilst pilfering from military supplies and was subsequently captured and put to work. Although he is generally slow to learn he knows his stuff insofar as blowing things up is concerned. He's often tactless and blunt. Prone to obsession. Difficult to panic.
Dayrin Brennan Stormreaper
Gender: Female
Age: 36
Physical description:
Average height but extremely muscular, with albino-pale skin sunburned over the cheekbones and nose. Her black hair is shoulder-length, with gold bands braided into it. Wide-set brown eyes make her face look squat.
Basic facts:
A member of the first rescue unit responsible for the regrouping of the remnants of various routed forces in the region. A veteran of multiple battles who prioritises the well-being of her men - both physical and mental - above her own. As a result she is usually externally calm, optimistic and fearless yet incredibly tired and in fact depressed due to frayed nerves. A particular fear of the possibility of things attacking her from below makes this all ten times worse when facing the burrowing Hakurians.
Calysia Combats ERP
So, the other day I rolled Calysia into the World of Warcraft on Argent Dawn EU (feel free to drop me a line if you play) just to better familiarise myself with how she talks. Because yeah, roleplay does actually help with that. The thing is, Argent Dawn is a very old, very heavily populated server. Which means, well... Goldshire is a hub of prostitution. And also my early quest hub.
I can't deny it. My mind has been quite scarred by the things some people should really keep to party chat rather than emotes even though I was keeping my time in the inn to a minimum. But, well... actually being propositioned for sex by various players was fun. Rather, being Calysia made it fun. Especially when most of them ended up running away.
Perhaps I should be a bit more of a bitch in real life.
Notes on 'Guts'
I love the concept for this chapter.
I am slightly concerned about the presentation.
My narrative voice... is slowly reverting to how it usually is and I'm a little lost about how to correct it, the bugger. That said, it does include a few defining features of Calysia's voice: the rambling sentence, for one, and there are also a few short, snappy lines. Just not enough.
On the plus side, I have no doubts that the basic premise is sound and that the idea of Calysia's mental operating theatre is awesome. Just have to rework a few segments.
Farewell Sweet Order
Reading the "time posted" labels on all those preceding entries has brought me some level of amusement. Finally something's held my attention for longer than thirty minutes - huzzah.
Overall I'm feeling quite positive after putting in that effort, anyway. Taking a proper look at each chapter and noting down my thoughts on each has been very useful - I have a bad habit of skim reading usually, something I feel really doesn't help me revise my work. The horror of just how out of place 'Step Lively!' was in its old state definitely hit home in that respect. Yeesh.
After three or so hours pouring over all of this, anyway, I've reached the end of the ordered work, so the pattern of chapter -> chapter note -> chapter is about to be overturned properly. I have an awful lot of unordered content for later on, as well as enough notes to choke a horse. As soon as I get back from my lecture tomorrow... that's what I'll be working on typing up. Along with a few character profiles and such for the group in the north.
Now to bed, before the exhilaration of actually being productive kills me.
X: Guts
Combined with a distinct lack of brains, they let people say and do the stupidest things. Officers have told me with pride that a soldier has “got guts” after they've done something heinously reckless. Usually that officer is standing by a cot in a medical wing, looking down at his underling's mangled flesh. I have never understood why that sight could ever induce such a response. Why risking himself and whoever had to drag his broken body back from the scene, why taking up more of my time and resources, why putting himself out of action for however long it takes him to heal is counted as having guts. All I can guess is it's down to the way that when I usually meet these idiotic glory-seekers their bowels are hanging out in plain view.
Sitting on my barrel while the gulls mobbed my pie crust, I imagined Wrathwrought with his small intestine sprawled out over my surgical table until the captain called me to board. In my mind, it was a simple snip. Somehow I doubted it would be so easy to shut him up outside of my own mental operating theatre.
Then again, I needed something to amuse me during the voyage.
Notes on 'The Harbour'
As Escalus commented on the Warcraft version of this, Wrathwrought is seeing character development! Of the sort Calysia cannot quite hide with incorrect said bookisms and biased narrative! I've reread this a few times and am sure that I've correctly managed to portray him in a fairly good light here for all Calysia's griping; having her too shocked to really control how his lines are interpreted helped quite a bit there.
After writing that note on 'Step Lively!' I couldn't help but stick "Pretty" in once or twice, too, so I feel the gap between this Wrathwrought and his previous depiction has been narrowed somewhat. Hurrah.
Again referencing Escalus' comment, this chapter does give way more than most, including the inciting incident in 'Democracy'. I am slightly concerned that I'm losing the style a little, but feel that this can be remedied in the less-meaty chapters to follow.
CALYSIA LIES. She knows full well what her sense of duty is tied too, at least subconsciously. Lying narrator ftw.
Calysia's longer chunk of dialogue is perhaps a bit too long - considering cutting it back a bit or punctuating it with a comment from Wrathwrought. I've toyed with the idea that Calysia might embellish on anything important she says to make it seem grander/more insightful, but I don't feel this fic could work if she was allowed to alter dialogue. It's the only unbiased element, after all.
Fairly happy with this chapter as a whole, but yeah. Still needs a bit of polish. Shall probably put it to the folk in my editing class and see how that goes.
IX: The Harbour
Crowded even at first light, it sprawled along the western side of the city, the docks littered with stacked cargo, escaped documentation and the sort of hard-working early riser who somehow deems the shedding of his sweat in the name of his occupation enough of a sacrifice to make elbowing people like me aside an excusable activity. Idiots. I doubted they knew a thing about sacrifice.
Hating him, I whined and bartered and almost pleaded with the captain. Let us on the ship. Take us to a dangerous place for people I dislike. Do it because my contemptible companion took a piss on our previous transport and annoyed its owner past reasoning. Do it even though it would suit me better if you refused.
I've no idea why my sense of duty is still kicking around. But hell, I should finish it off one day. Standing in that harbour with that weathered sailor eyeing me in the weak light, that cinched it.
He gave in after a while. Naturally. There was no drawback to taking us. He was running supplies up to the battlefront anyway. Paid more for no detour. He just made me wait for his own damned amusement. Bastard. When it was done Wrathwrought and I headed back down the jetty, wood creaking under our boots, chain mail jingling over his biceps.
“Had to get your dick out earlier, didn't you.”
He grunted, shrugged one shoulder, grinned and peeled off at a tangent, leaving me in my own company insofar as that was possible with the growing buzz of activity all around us.
I grunted, sat on a barrel, scowled and stared up darkly at the towering metal behemoth rocking in the frothy water that swirled somewhere down below the docks. Ornate swirls prettified a brutish lump of cold steel. It was for bludgeoning through ice and anything else unlucky enough to meet sharply with the ship's prow and that art was unnecessary, like all art, all useless, all for some air-brained fool to grin gormlessly at while others fought tooth and nail in the real world for his privileged arse's fucking freedom.
I clenched and unclenched my fists at the thought. Salt air stung my nostrils. The scent of warm pie soothed them.
“Hungry, Pretty?”
It was Wrathwrought. Stupid brute sat down next to me and offered me pastry. I took it. We ate. The necessary progression of eating unfortunately led to his mouth no longer being full. He talked.
“Nasty boat for a nasty job,” he said, looking up at the ship as I had done. “Ferrying people to a warzone's no different to showing them to a room with a rabid wolf inside.”
I snorted at the notion.
“Idiot, the difference's clear. You know exactly what will happen to the sad case left with the wolf; you can probably visualise ripping and tearing pretty well. But unlucky wretches like us? We could encounter anything. And anything is nothing more than a big blur of nameless threat. Frankly, no matter how menacing I might try and imagine it, I'm not going to feel guilt leaving someone to a cloud of who-knows-what.”
“Don't have to visualise the dying or the suffering. Just the life – then imagine it gone.”
“Huh. I can think of plenty I'd cheer the passing of.”
“No one's that cold.”
“Willing to bet?”
I gave him my fiercest grin, challenging, but he just frowned and looked away. A disappointment.
“Don't expect you'll like this passage,” he commented after a while.
“And why's that?”
I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and tossed the last dry husk of pie crust to the gulls.
“Fear. From not being able to swim.”
So, he'd actually managed to earn himself a proper glare. I obliged.
“The hell makes you think I can't swim?”
“Don't look the sort.”
“Hah, brilliant, another gaping hole in that empty head of yours. Don't judge based on looks, fool,” I retorted. Never mind that he was correct.
“Oh? You ought to consider that yourself, Wraithwood. Because all you've done is make assumptions about me since we've met and I don't damn well appreciate it.”
When I looked up in shock he stared back, frowning, mouth set firmly. I settled my features, glared back. Finally he gave a jerky sort of nod.
“Consider it, Pretty.”
He leapt down from his perch on the barrel and stalked off down the dock without a backward glance.
Notes on 'Things You Forget'
Another case of a chapter being explained in the subsequent chapter. I think it works, just about, and am willing to risk it until someone objects because this is an important truth that definitely needs to be said.
Still do not understand why weeing is fun.
Notes on 'Travelling'
Second paragraph has a few chunky sentences that might benefit from rephrasing, but overall I'm pleased with this chapter as it starts to suggest reasons for Calysia's self-absorbed temprement.
I'm also pondering if the line "the inn was too crowded with the barman and Wrathwrought inside" makes it clear that Calysia's narative is often misleading. "The inn was too crowded" probably puts the mental image of a bustling place into readers' minds, yet the second half of the sentence hints that it's actually quite empty and this is just another one of her barbs at her companion. I hope so, anyway, as I really want to make that clear. Calysia infers way too much and should not be trusted. >.>
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
VII: Travelling
When we reached the next hamlet, the decision to stop was unanimous. He needed drink. I needed his liver to solidify and die. That the solution was mutually agreed upon did not take the edge off my contempt for him.
I ended up walking. The inn was too crowded with the barman and Wrathwrought inside; I patrolled the town in circles, making excuses to myself. Fill up my flask at the pump. Try to find someone selling salted meat. Buy some thread to stock up my stores. Get my boot re-heeled. It only took one pass to know where to go for all this so it became a matter of great concentration to make sure I had to cross back and forth as much as possible. Convincing aimless wandering takes a lot of forethought and planning. The reverse of a mush-brained general making up his master plan.
People took to staring, a favourite human pastime and one a traveller always helps bored civilians to indulge in. Travelling makes you an unknown quantity to people around you. You become intrigue. Mystery. The person they can use as a puppet for their darkest inner theatre because there's no guilt in tying you to the worst of lives. An alien, you are subhuman, so the devil-worthy evil their bored minds create is suddenly no more a blemish on their souls than the acts of an ignorant child smashing dolls' heads together in the street.
Sometimes I catch their gaze and the thoughts echo across my mind.
Has she no home? Has she no roots? Does she stumble around this world with no substance in her life, just the acts, just one task leading on to another with no real meaning and no real joy?
Perhaps she is fleeing the scene of the crime. Perhaps she killed: stood and watched them die. Perhaps she cannot escape the guilt.
No one misses her.
They look away, but the town's need for drama at another's expense is clear. Were they travellers, they would know their home is not the anomaly in that respect.
I have been a traveller for so long the tugs of human imagination on the strings that hold my marionette limbs tie neat and simple seams along the gashes in the facts.
Notes on 'Hollow Words'
I didn't realise how terribly wrong this chapter was until I came to post it here. Here's the original as I found it, the end lopped off as it's unchanged:
THE WHOLE POINT IS THAT WRATHWROUGHT CHOOSES HER HENCE HE KNOWS HOW GOOD SHE IS AUGH AUGH IDIOT OBSIDIAN AUGH.
That said, Wrathwrought teasing that she's a whore amused me so I had to try and keep it in whilst editting out the main point of the conversation... ahaha. Uh. Not so hard once I came up with a basic conversation starter for him to use.
Still being vague with places. Shall have to either draw up a map or never define stuff. The latter makes my skin creep, so maybe not, but as the north is the only important part for this story there seems precious little point in defining the whole world.
I like the idea that company changes Calysia's thoughts a bit. Wrathwrought's presence has already directed her thoughts from previous acts to previous relationships. Woot.
HOLLOW WORDS
“So, Pretty, what do you do that makes you so worthy?”
Wrathwrought was a talker. You wouldn't think it to look at him. Tall, muscular, beard clipped, leather and plate armour in muted shades of brown, eyebrows wild as anything, battered swords crossed over his back: he looked like someone who put effort into being the rugged, mysterious hero. The sort of person who probably hit those swords against a rock for a good few hours to get the well-used effect. The sort of person who'd hear that useless council's praise and pump his ego with it.
No, in retrospect, maybe I should have expected the blather.
“My job,” I ground out.
We were halfway through Elwynn from the border with Redridge. Tame place. Paths lined with neat wooden fences. Sunlight meeting the thick foliage overhead and dappling everything gold and green down below. In the sunlight and the weak, harmless shadows, my heavily armed tag along grinned a soldier's grin. Fleetingly, I smelled the wraith of a specific metallic tang.
“You must be good to impress all those men. Do you charge much extra for a dance?”
The most infuriating part about it was that I didn't stumble into red-haze fury. The hate was there. So was the indignation. But I felt that little flicker in my chest that wondered at his choice of quips and irritating compliments, that little compartment outside the anger that kept itself free to house confusion after years of being an asexual wound-binder and little else. I stomped it.
“Shut your mouth, Wrathwrought. Don't bother opening it again.”
THE WHOLE POINT IS THAT WRATHWROUGHT CHOOSES HER HENCE HE KNOWS HOW GOOD SHE IS AUGH AUGH IDIOT OBSIDIAN AUGH.
That said, Wrathwrought teasing that she's a whore amused me so I had to try and keep it in whilst editting out the main point of the conversation... ahaha. Uh. Not so hard once I came up with a basic conversation starter for him to use.
Still being vague with places. Shall have to either draw up a map or never define stuff. The latter makes my skin creep, so maybe not, but as the north is the only important part for this story there seems precious little point in defining the whole world.
I like the idea that company changes Calysia's thoughts a bit. Wrathwrought's presence has already directed her thoughts from previous acts to previous relationships. Woot.
VI: Hollow Words
“So, Pretty, what do you intend to do whilst up in the frozen north?”
Wrathwrought was a talker. You wouldn't think it to look at him. Tall, muscular, beard clipped, leather and plate armour in muted shades of brown, eyebrows wild as anything, battered swords crossed over his back: he looked like someone who put effort into being the rugged hero. The sort of person who probably hit those swords against a rock for a good few hours to get the well-used effect. The sort of person who'd hear that useless council's praise and pump his ego with it.
No, in retrospect, maybe I should have expected the blather.
“My job,” I ground out.
We were halfway through the cultivated lands leading up to the coast. Tame place. Paths lined with neat wooden fences. Sunlight meeting the thick foliage overhead and dappling everything gold and green down below. In the sunlight and the weak, harmless shadows, my heavily armed domestic pet grinned a soldier's grin. Fleetingly, I smelled the wraith of a specific metallic tang.
“You've certainly impressed a lot of people with that.”
There was a blessed pause; he looked at me out of the corner of his eye, appraising.
“Do you charge much extra for a dance?”
The most infuriating part about it was that I didn't stumble into red-haze fury. The hate was there. So was the indignation. But I felt that little flicker in my chest that wondered at his choice of quips and irritating compliments, that little compartment outside the anger that kept itself free to house confusion after years of being an asexual wound-binder and little else. I stomped it.
“Shut your mouth, Wrathwrought. Don't bother opening it again.”
“Not to do with wit, then. Every riposte the same, Pretty.”
I had to remember a simple fact. It was an empty word, pretty. Meant nothing. Too subjective. He was only proving me right by calling me that, calling a sour-faced medic whose hair was prematurely greying, whose face bore lines nothing to do with laughter pretty. It would be like me calling him admirable. Total fallacy. As worthless as the words of the dead.
And be sure. A compliment that once meant everything folds in neatly on itself when the mind behind it torn away and put deep down under the ground.
Notes on 'Democracy'
I like pissing on democracy. I think it's a sucky system. If you want to declare your system of government a good way of allowing the voice of the people to control the workings of the country, let the people actually affect things properly. Of course, I think that's an idiotic strategy and would be much more inclined to back you if you said from the start you were going to be ruling as you saw fit.
Anyway.
Not sure Calysia should drink scotch. On one hand, yeah, it sounds like the sort of way she might spend a spare afternoon. On the other hand, I'm not sure if spare afternoons should happen. Hum.
Oh also. Sober line. Not sure about that. Kinda like it. Kinda don't.
Dialogue perhaps a bit forced, but that's okay as long as hers isn't. Politicians always sound like they have sticks up their arses after all.
As this chapter is really the first to actually push the plot along I find it amusing that I also made it the first that's not really character driven. Calysia doesn't really have much of a choice in the matter even if she is quick to assert herself as the strongest figure in the room. Actually quite liking this as, even though most of the fiction is character drive, the character herself is pushed to her current attitude/actions by events in the past. Or maybe I'm just making sketchy links.
Specific details on the place would be nice - I just say "the north" instead of giving the specific areas names - but I think giving details on the area would just bog this scene down and it already seems slow compared to previous entries. Could come in more later on, perhaps from Wrathwrough himself.
Overall I'm quite happy with this chapter, anyway. Yeah, it's longer than before because it's shown instead of told, but I think I stuck to Calysia's particular style of naration moderately well.
Anyway.
Not sure Calysia should drink scotch. On one hand, yeah, it sounds like the sort of way she might spend a spare afternoon. On the other hand, I'm not sure if spare afternoons should happen. Hum.
Oh also. Sober line. Not sure about that. Kinda like it. Kinda don't.
Dialogue perhaps a bit forced, but that's okay as long as hers isn't. Politicians always sound like they have sticks up their arses after all.
As this chapter is really the first to actually push the plot along I find it amusing that I also made it the first that's not really character driven. Calysia doesn't really have much of a choice in the matter even if she is quick to assert herself as the strongest figure in the room. Actually quite liking this as, even though most of the fiction is character drive, the character herself is pushed to her current attitude/actions by events in the past. Or maybe I'm just making sketchy links.
Specific details on the place would be nice - I just say "the north" instead of giving the specific areas names - but I think giving details on the area would just bog this scene down and it already seems slow compared to previous entries. Could come in more later on, perhaps from Wrathwrough himself.
Overall I'm quite happy with this chapter, anyway. Yeah, it's longer than before because it's shown instead of told, but I think I stuck to Calysia's particular style of naration moderately well.
V: Democracy
Once good soldiers, they'd now become a committee, and that was enough to make me hate them. All that whittering, all that wasted breath bickering over moot points. Putting off the important matters because they already knew those would take months. If this was the fair alternative to designated leadership, give me a dictator with a maw full of curses and a gut full of hate any day.
That they'd called me here didn't improve my opinion of them. An afternoon making bandages, sipping scotch and blocking out humanity ruined by some bloody summons from a load of people I'd only aligned myself with because I'd presumed being a veteran might make them less comparable to drunken asses when it came to decision making than your average good-for-nothing politician. Not a mistake I'll make again. Hell no. The world is populated with drunken asses and I'm somehow left sober. I'll understand that some day.
So the drunken asses called me in and stood me in the centre of their little circle of chairs. Supposed to symbolise equality. Just meant one or two of them were always behind me, with a couple more perched, blurry, on the edge of my peripheral vision. Infuriating.
“Calysia Wraithwood?” asked a heavyset man, paunch barely restrained by his open-necked shirt. His chin was square and covered in stubble streaked with grey.
“That's who you sent the messenger to,” I replied. I wondered if he thought going grey in patches was a sign of ageing into wisdom. I couldn't think of any other reason not to shave off that joke of a beard.
“And the one who is here right now,” added Stonewright, a gangly, droopy-eyed man I remembered from a sweat-stained cot in some godforsaken medical tent.
“Good,” said blotch-beard, giving me that broad soldier-to-soldier grin I so despised and seeming unmoved when I scowled back venomously, “Good. I'm glad you could make it, Wraithwood. That's a fine dress you're wearing, I really must say-”
I turned my back on him.
“Someone who isn't a small-talking moron enlighten me. I'm not wasting my day listening to drivel here.”
They collapsed into frenzied murmuring and I felt the dread that heralded having to wait for democracy to function.
“You.”
I jabbed a finger at a sharp-chinned man with blue, clear eyes and a dignified expression.
“Explain.”
He gazed at me for a few seconds before choosing to bless me with his almighty response. More than enough time to make me wish there was someone here without an attitude. Someone who'd just talk. Hell, no one just talked any more.
“We have an issue in the north,” he said gravely, pronouncing 'issue' as 'iss-you' and earning a scornful twitch of my lip.
“It's full of Hekurians?” I quipped snidely.
Bastard ignored me entirely.
“With a small operation in the far east of the war zone – you know the situation there, no doubt.”
“I don't.”
Again, he waved my words away.
“Their leader was slain and they're running around like headless chickens, liable to be slaughtered, which would be a dreadful loss,” he continued, heavy brows knitting with what could only be heartfelt concern, “We need them working as a unit again, bolstered with knowledge of a dangerous combat zone. We also happen to have two brilliant people who oddly seem to have only been working alone, which of course the council cannot allow to continue.”
The council of lemmings murmured agreement with this, one of them raising their voice to say stupidly, “It's just not safe without someone protecting your back!”
I looked around at them, at the same encouraging expression on every face as the same hum of approval issued from their mouths. Voice of the masses indeed. Interesting how picking one out was the only way to make it all work. Interesting how it seemed I wasn't really going to have a say in this, if the speaker's tone was any indication.
“Not safe indeed,” he was currently agreeing, “But thankfully we have a perfect way to kill two birds with one stone.”
He smiled at this point, oblivious to the way my mind was quietly interpreting his words. Tie both 'brilliant people' together and drop a fucking boulder on their heads.
“Together, you shall be sent to deliver aid to our men,” he decreed, “Milady Wraithwood, meet your new partner, Gethan Wrathwrought.”
With a hateful flourish of his arm he aimed my attention to the door as the man in question swept in. It took me less than half a glance to measure his character and know the truth. The next few months would be hell.
Notes on 'Cursing Doesn't Help'
I love this chapter.
Okay, I still have stuff to say about it. I love this chapter because, in two sentences, I've managed to convey Calysia's exasperation. The thing is, on reflection, I've realised that in two sentences I've also conveyed a sense of self-mockery along with her black humour... Wherein lies the problem: there's a distinct contrast between this almost good-natured barb and the pure venom of the rest. I think it may belong later on in the story.
Which is great, actually, because I've started to suspect it is the reason the link between the depiction of Wrathwrought in the previous chapter and his formal introduction in the following chapter is a tad weak. What-ho.
Okay, I still have stuff to say about it. I love this chapter because, in two sentences, I've managed to convey Calysia's exasperation. The thing is, on reflection, I've realised that in two sentences I've also conveyed a sense of self-mockery along with her black humour... Wherein lies the problem: there's a distinct contrast between this almost good-natured barb and the pure venom of the rest. I think it may belong later on in the story.
Which is great, actually, because I've started to suspect it is the reason the link between the depiction of Wrathwrought in the previous chapter and his formal introduction in the following chapter is a tad weak. What-ho.
IV: Cursing Doesn't Help
This is something I found out a long time ago. The knowledge has no hope of getting me out of the habit.
Notes on 'Step Lively!'
While I'm still moderately pleased with the opening paragraph of this chapter and the idea of an officer being over-chirpy (though Calysia is meant to be more angry that this man is using a phrase she feels he doesn't fully appreciate - the depth of what she has endured is almost a matter of pride, however twisted) I feel it doesn't fit properly with the story and intend on changing it once I've fully established the precise manner of Calysia's previous deployment in my own mind.
See, firstly, the only definite assignment she's had before is the futile defence of a fort. Exactly how much slogging about in the rain would occur when holed up under seige is debatable. Furthermore, if the scene she describes is one from that assignment, her attitude towards the officer doesn't fit. Her reflections on her commander at that time all idolise him and condemn herself, whereas here she sympathises with the troops, not the leader.
Secondly, Wrathwrought is perhaps overly demonised here. That or I need to toughen him up in the chapters that follow - I wrote this chapter in class, before I had properly considered his personality, which may explain things.
Thirdly, I'm not sure I like the chapter order. I haven't yet decided if this might be better introduced after the meeting in chapter V; I don't feel the present order makes it clear that this is the first appearance of the man identified as Wrathwrought in that chapter.
Shall return to this chapter for sure once the details of Calysia's history are sorted.
See, firstly, the only definite assignment she's had before is the futile defence of a fort. Exactly how much slogging about in the rain would occur when holed up under seige is debatable. Furthermore, if the scene she describes is one from that assignment, her attitude towards the officer doesn't fit. Her reflections on her commander at that time all idolise him and condemn herself, whereas here she sympathises with the troops, not the leader.
Secondly, Wrathwrought is perhaps overly demonised here. That or I need to toughen him up in the chapters that follow - I wrote this chapter in class, before I had properly considered his personality, which may explain things.
Thirdly, I'm not sure I like the chapter order. I haven't yet decided if this might be better introduced after the meeting in chapter V; I don't feel the present order makes it clear that this is the first appearance of the man identified as Wrathwrought in that chapter.
Shall return to this chapter for sure once the details of Calysia's history are sorted.
III: Step Lively!
Much too cheery for the situations when officers always choose to use it. In torrential rain, perhaps. In mud. In heat. In snow. In pain. The sort of command that makes mutiny inviting to everyone, simply because of the necessary context of the phrase. So when that unfit, sweating, pork-fisted, swine-snouted, untried son of a bitch dared to say it to me it didn't matter that the two of us were out there in the golden sunshine, wearing good, clean clothes and well-fed on good, wholesome food. I heard the words and I was wounded, I was tired, I was surrounded by men and women who stank of sweat, piss, mud, rain and hopelessness and shuddered in the mire, wondering whether those puddles were of water or of blood, and even then, whose? In short, I was fucking furious.
“Shut your goddamn mouth,” I snarled at him. “Don't you bloody well speak to me again.”
“Only when you pick up the pace, Pretty.”
He grinned. His face swelled and gleamed and invited the punch; I swore aloud when I missed; bigass git ducked and darted away far too fast.
“See? Too slow.”
He didn't deserve a response. Ignorant bastard, thinking he could taunt me and get away with it, thinking rolling around in the mud in a forest the enemy never reached made him a military man. He didn't know the first thing about survival. He didn't know the first thing about command or stepping lively. That was why they'd paired us up together. That was why they'd made us partners for the next few weeks. They thought I could teach him a thing or two. They thought this was a jolly fine idea.
Damn them to hell.
Notes on 'My Pack'
I quite like this chapter. Five lines must count as concise and concision is what I'm aiming for, so.
That said, it could be cut if I wanted to make the story more conventional. Could perhaps reuse it as an aside later on but it would probably have to be rephrased - Calysia is much too depressed this early on for anything to be dropped straight into later, more fulfilling times.
Might be good to just slip in a reference once she reaches the war zone if the comic goes ahead.
That said, it could be cut if I wanted to make the story more conventional. Could perhaps reuse it as an aside later on but it would probably have to be rephrased - Calysia is much too depressed this early on for anything to be dropped straight into later, more fulfilling times.
Might be good to just slip in a reference once she reaches the war zone if the comic goes ahead.
II: My Pack
It's tidy. Everything is ordered and held in place, either by pressure from the other items crammed in around it or the narrow leather straps I sewed in place. It's a common misconception that field medics are extraordinary because we can function whilst everything descends into chaos. In fact, a good field medic will just bring sense and orderliness with them.
Mess makes you kill even more people than you usually would.
I: Killing
“If you're a medic, how the fuck did you kill it?”
Long after the vice-like jaw had released its grip on his leg and I'd bound the wound and turned my attention to an older injury on his upper arm, the trainee couldn't keep his eyes off the wolf's corpse. One side of its head was crumpled in. Otherwise it seemed entirely free of blemish.
“Because medic doesn't necessarily equate to helpless pussy,” I said evenly, tugging on his bandages.
He was in his late thirties, skin tanned and smooth over the rounded muscles his training had built up. His hair was cropped short in the usual military style. Obviously aiming to look tough. Even more apparent that he'd never killed before, even though he'd never admit it. It was the way he couldn't keep his eyes off that wolf. Morbid fascination. Probably embarrassment that a woman in a dress had done the deed when he couldn't.
Didn't help that simple linen still made him scream.
“Fuck! Fuck me, that hurts!”
I'd purposefully chosen to stand behind him before I'd even started my work, well clear of kicking legs, and I watched him flail as I removed the bandage altogether and poured searing ethanol onto the wound. A better person would have questioned the satisfaction I gained listening to that high-pitched wail but I was a medic. I fixed people, I wasn't some outstanding example of moral perfection. War fucked morality over as much for those in charge of saving lives as those taking them.
Killing a savage wolf with a staff, clubbing the life out of its sinewy limbs, hadn't been hard or anything like it, regardless of the injured kid's ignorant presumptions. I killed people all the time, just by focusing my attention on the guy next to them. Just by prioritising. Murder was not hard.
“Fucking hurts!” he yelled again, maybe in case I hadn't realised.
“You don't say,” I replied nonchalantly.
I bound the wound again, then checked the dressing that covered the wolf's handiwork. Both clean. Simple procedure. I told him he was fine and merely walked away. He made a lot of noise – I could hear him even after the turn in the road that hid his hobbling form from sight – but he should have been grateful. He'd been spared a moment. He'd been granted life.
Long after the vice-like jaw had released its grip on his leg and I'd bound the wound and turned my attention to an older injury on his upper arm, the trainee couldn't keep his eyes off the wolf's corpse. One side of its head was crumpled in. Otherwise it seemed entirely free of blemish.
“Because medic doesn't necessarily equate to helpless pussy,” I said evenly, tugging on his bandages.
He was in his late thirties, skin tanned and smooth over the rounded muscles his training had built up. His hair was cropped short in the usual military style. Obviously aiming to look tough. Even more apparent that he'd never killed before, even though he'd never admit it. It was the way he couldn't keep his eyes off that wolf. Morbid fascination. Probably embarrassment that a woman in a dress had done the deed when he couldn't.
Didn't help that simple linen still made him scream.
“Fuck! Fuck me, that hurts!”
I'd purposefully chosen to stand behind him before I'd even started my work, well clear of kicking legs, and I watched him flail as I removed the bandage altogether and poured searing ethanol onto the wound. A better person would have questioned the satisfaction I gained listening to that high-pitched wail but I was a medic. I fixed people, I wasn't some outstanding example of moral perfection. War fucked morality over as much for those in charge of saving lives as those taking them.
Killing a savage wolf with a staff, clubbing the life out of its sinewy limbs, hadn't been hard or anything like it, regardless of the injured kid's ignorant presumptions. I killed people all the time, just by focusing my attention on the guy next to them. Just by prioritising. Murder was not hard.
“Fucking hurts!” he yelled again, maybe in case I hadn't realised.
“You don't say,” I replied nonchalantly.
I bound the wound again, then checked the dressing that covered the wolf's handiwork. Both clean. Simple procedure. I told him he was fine and merely walked away. He made a lot of noise – I could hear him even after the turn in the road that hid his hobbling form from sight – but he should have been grateful. He'd been spared a moment. He'd been granted life.
Notes on 'Killing'
The last line is not right. (Perhaps will be easier to fix once the repeat in Calysia's dream has been written?) "I had chosen not to kill" might be stronger but there's still some concern with then getting that to match precisely the repeat.
Swearing necessary? Calysia is not the sort to screen language and she tends to associate with soldiers, yet I have some concern that using "fuck" so much in my first chapter is just going to give the impression that I'm an idiot trying to show my maturity by using curses. Not arguing against the idiot tag. Arguing that I don't want my story facing a negative brand from the start.
Does Calysia seem self-satisfied yet self-damning enough? Yeah. Yeah, I think she does.
THAT LAST LINE IS SO BLOODY IMPORTANT WHY ISN'T IT RIGHT YET.
For all my misgivings with the chapter - the more I re-read it, the more I feel it's overdone, overly angsty, overly Lysia-esque - it does give immediate insight into Calysia as a character. Her narrative voice is as bruesque as her attitude when it comes to dealing with patients; she has a habit of looking down her nose at people and presuming things about them without a great deal of evidence to back up her thoughts; she's a medic but far from the motherly nurse figure; and she definitely has something on her mind. She favours bleak conclusions and is fairly insightful.
I guess, as first chapters go, that makes it fairly informative.
Swearing necessary? Calysia is not the sort to screen language and she tends to associate with soldiers, yet I have some concern that using "fuck" so much in my first chapter is just going to give the impression that I'm an idiot trying to show my maturity by using curses. Not arguing against the idiot tag. Arguing that I don't want my story facing a negative brand from the start.
Does Calysia seem self-satisfied yet self-damning enough? Yeah. Yeah, I think she does.
THAT LAST LINE IS SO BLOODY IMPORTANT WHY ISN'T IT RIGHT YET.
For all my misgivings with the chapter - the more I re-read it, the more I feel it's overdone, overly angsty, overly Lysia-esque - it does give immediate insight into Calysia as a character. Her narrative voice is as bruesque as her attitude when it comes to dealing with patients; she has a habit of looking down her nose at people and presuming things about them without a great deal of evidence to back up her thoughts; she's a medic but far from the motherly nurse figure; and she definitely has something on her mind. She favours bleak conclusions and is fairly insightful.
I guess, as first chapters go, that makes it fairly informative.
Basic Purpose
Here is where I intend to catalogue all changes/additions to That Flight of Sparrows: the original fiction and the World of Warcraft adaptation. I have a habit of losing notes and whole chapters in my various ring binders and obscure file paths so having one set place to stick them all felt like a good idea. This will be full of spoilers, so if you want to read the story properly click "story" in the list of labels on the sidebar or visit the site... once I have it up and functioning.
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